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The First Turning and the End of Woke

Generaciones

No sé quién ha hecho esta maravilla pero mis dieses. pic.twitter.com/abQ0JfQj8x

— ⚫️ El DiSputado® (@NoSoyLaGente) May 21, 2021

The Dramatis Personae of Active Life

From Mary Shelley's The Last Man (Penguin, p. 227-28):

We had lived so long in the vicinity of Eton, that its population of young folks was well known to us. Many of them had been Alfred's playmates, before they became his school-fellows. We now watched this youthful congregation with redoubled interest. We marked the difference of character among the boys, and endeavoured to read the future man in the stripling. There is nothing more lovely, to which the heart more yearns than a free-spirited boy, gentle, brave, and generous. Several of the Etonians had these characteristics; all were distinguished by a sense of honour, and spirit of enterprize; in some, as they verged towards manhood, this degenerated into presumption; but the younger ones, lads a little older than our own, were conspicuous for their gallant and sweet dispositions.

Here were the future governors of England; the men, who, when our ardour was cold, and our projects completed or destroyed for ever, when, our drama acted, we doffed the garb of the hour, and assumed the uniform of age, or of more equalizing death; here were the beings who were to carry on the vast machine of society; here were the lovers, husbands, fathers; here the landlord, the politician, the soldier; some fancied that they were even now ready to appear on the stage, eager to make one among the dramatis personae of active life. It was not long since I was like one of these beardless aspirants; when my boy shall have obtained tha place I now hold, I shall have tottered into a grey-headed, wrinkled old man. Strange system! riddle of the Sphynx, most awe-striking! that thus man remains, while we the individuals pass away. Such is, to borrow the words of an eloquent and philosophical writer, 'the mode of existence decreed to a pemanent body composed of transitory parts; wherein, by the disposition of a stupendous wisdom, moulding together the great mysterious incorporation of the human race, the whole, at one time, is never old, or middle-aged, or young, but, in a condition of unchangeable constancy, moves on through the varied tenour of perpetual decay, fall, renovation, and progression" (Burke's Reflections on the French Revolution).

Willingly do I give place to thee, dear Alfred! Advance, offspring of tender love, child of our hopes; advance a soldier on the road to which I have been the pioneer! I will make way for thee. I have already put off the carelessness of chilhood, the unlined brow, and sprightly gait of early years, that they may adorn thee. Advance; and I will despoil myself still further for thy advantage. Time shall rob me of the graces of maturity, shall take the fire from my eyes, and agility from my limbs, shall steal the better part of life, eager expectation and passionate love, and shower them in double portion on thy dear head. Advance! Avail thyself of the fit, thou and thy comrades; and in the drama you are about to act, do not disgrace those who taught you to enter on the stage, and to pronounce becomingly the parts assigned to you! May your progress be uninterrupted and secure; born during the springtide of the hopes of man, may you lead up the summer to which no winter may succeed!

—oOo—

Muere una generación

Los abuelitos que hoy están muriendo en España solos en residencias y hospitales sin poder despedirse de sus seres queridos, son los niños y las niñas que nacieron entre bombas, tanques y cartillas de racionamiento.
Son los niños de la guerra quienes nos están dejando hoy.D.E.P🇪🇸 pic.twitter.com/bkQ2Uw6vle

— viva la benemerita (@RamosRegli) March 27, 2020

La generación millennial

Un gráfico animado que muestra con quién viven los norteamericanos de 26 años. En 1968 el 78% vivían con su esposo/a. En 2018 sólo el 24% vive con su esposo/a y el mayor porcentaje (30%) vive con sus padres. https://t.co/AK42YSmJ87

— Pablo Malo (@pitiklinov) October 6, 2019

Hineini, Hineini

Leyendo estoy un excelente novelón actual, Here I Am, de Jonathan Safran Foer—y descubriendo ciertas afinidades. Pues yo también estoy, o estaré, aquí. Dicen que para madurar hay que enterrar al padre. Pero habrá que empezar por enterrar al abuelo (Isaac, padre de Irv, que es padre del protagonista Jacob). Así se entierra al abuelo, o al padre, en el capítulo "The Names Were Magnificent" ("Not to Have a Choice Is Also a Choice"):

Jacob wanted to go to his father's side, as he had as a child, and ask him how he managed to shovel dirt into his father's grave.
Did you think it was disgusting?
I did, his father would have said.
I couldn't have done it.
His father would have laughed a father's laugh and said, One day you'll do it.
What if I can't?
Children bury their dead parents, because the dead need to be buried. Parents do not need to bring their children into the wrold, but children need to bring their parents our of it.
Irv handed the shovel to Jacob. Their eyes met. The father whispered into the son's ear: "Here we are and will be"
When Jacob imagined his children surviving him, he felt no version of immortality, as it's sometimes unimaginatively put, usually by people who are trying to encourage others to have children. He felt no contentment or peace or satisfaction of any kind. He felt only the overwhelming sadness of missing out. Death felt less fair with children, because there was more to miss. Whom would Benjy marry? (Despite himself, Jacob couldn't shake his Jewish certainty that of course he would want to marry, and would marry). To what ethical and lucrative profession would Sam be drawn? What odd hobbies would Max indulge? Where would they travel? What would their children look like? (Of course they would want to have children, and have children.) How would they cope and celebrate? How would each die? (At least he would miss their deaths. maybe that was the compensation for having to die himself.)

El abuelo Isaac se ahorca modestamente antes de ir a la residencia de ancianos. Nadie comenta ese hecho en su funeral, pero lo entierran en la sección de suicidas del cementerio judío tras un sabio sermón del rabino. Jacob llora allí con retraso. Pero en su propia vida le afecta mucho más su divorcio de Julia, y aún más le conmueve el deber personal e intransferible que tiene de llevar a matar a su perro decrépito, Argus. El perro es suyo, le dice Julia. Por primera vez se hace totalmente responsable de Argus, cuando lo lleva al veterinario como quien va al matadero. Le cuesta a Jacob aceptar la cuestión, y darle el OK al anciano veterinario que ya tiene la jeringuilla lista: ("¿Está usted listo para dejar partir a Argus?"... Not quite). Pero también termina la novela con Jacob dando muerte a Argus, con la misma palabra hebrea que da título al libro, hineini, "I am ready".

Me ha llamado la atención la coincidencia entre el hineini de Foer y ese otro de Cohen que abre su disco prepóstumo, You Want It Darker. También de Cohen es aquello de

Everybody knows the boat is leaking
Everybody knows the captain lied
Everybody's got this broken feeling
Like their father or their dog just died.
Everybody's talking to their pockets
Everybody wants a box of chocolates
And a long-stem rose.
Everybody knows.

Historia de varios padres

—oOo—

Antiguos ritos de culturas moribundas

Me voy al cineclub Cerbuna a ver una película de sus ciclos, En la casa. Allí echan los fines de semana películas recientes, y aún va la gente. Pagando, ojo. Ahora bien, a los ciclos de cine gratuito de la Universidad, películas clásicas de los mejores directores, yo soy de los más jóvenes que van. Me temo que a la mayoría de las películas que he ido, de los pocos espectadores que van, no suelen bajar de cincuenta y tantos años para arriba. Más bien alrededor de los sesenta está la media. Las películas son gratis, entrada libre—pero los jóvenes no las quieren ni regaladas. De los treinta mil estudiantes de la universidad, a ninguno le interesa el cine como arte. Es pasmoso, y triste. Ha sido la gran afición transitoria del siglo XX, la cinefilia. Para los chavales de ahora, y para los jóvenes adultos también, el cine clásico, vale decir el cine, es como un rito viejo de una religión en la que no se cree. O como una lengua muerta, algo que se estudia por obligación, y sólo lo ven cuando hay que verlo en un curso de medios audiovisuales. Sólo las películas de este año interesan algo. Y creíamos que había llegado para quedarse, el cine. Pero ya no entretiene, ni gusta. Ya está pasando y quedándose atrás, como estamos pasando nosotros, su público, los que lo veíamos como creyentes, los que lo identificábamos con los momentos más intensos y especiales de la vida. Hablarán de cine con fascinación Garci y Luis Alberto de Cuenca y otros, ancianos entre humo de cigarrillo, en tertulias fuera de hora. Como los viejos libros, ahora las películas acumulan polvo en un estante, y nadie las verá, o casi nadie. De treinta mil estudiantes, ni uno. Se dice pronto.

 

Stop the Clocks!

 

—oOo—